The feeling of contentment faded as soon as he saw Galadriel standing by
her mirror later, long after night had drawn down over Lothlorien. She had
been waiting for him. Her soft blue eyes swam out of the silvery night
like two small beacons, and the knowing compassion in them was so terrible
that he faltered a little as he approached.
"It is time," she said simply. Her voice was soft, the sound of wind rustling through dry reeds.
"I know, but I am afraid. And ashamed."
"Only the very foolish would hold no fear," she said, looking steadily down at him.
That made him feel a little better, but he was still terrified of what he must do. Even now, as he stood on the threshold of exorcising his personal demons after countless centuries, his frightened, cowering mind shied away from the enormity of the task before him. He knew very well what he would see in her mirror tonight; the secret he had tried to bury for so long was going to come to light at last, rising from its restless grave like a hideous and tragic specter. He couldn't do it. Though the prospect of freeing his tired soul from the burden of the awful guilt of his distant past was appealing to him, the fear and self-loathing he felt was too strong.
"I can't…I shouldn't-," he began, turning to leave, but Galadriel laid an insistent, restraining hand on his shoulder.
"For all these long years, you have fled from your past, tried to hide from the truth in your fortress of Imladris, and still the truth has pursued you all the same. If you do not face it now, you will never be free of the demons that haunt your dreams. The past will never go away, not for us." She moved toward the fountain, picking up the silver carafe. Her blue eyes never left him. "The secret you carry consumes you. It feeds on your fear and shame, leeching the strength from your bones. It will never let you rest. It will kill you if it can. Come, look into the mirror and be cleansed." She held out her hand in silent invitation
Elrond stared at her hand, white as marble and floating in the air like a glowing dove. There was nothing holding him here. He could run if he chose. He was tempted, oh so tempted to do just that, but she was right. If he walked away now, the truth would still be there, like a malignant tumor skulking beneath healthy white skin, working its evil magic in silence, undiscovered and unacknowledged until it was too late. He sighed and stepped forward on treacherous knees that threatened to buckle at every step.
No! What are you doing? Stop! gibbered the fearful voice in his mind. It was the voice that had held him captive for all these years. There is no need for this. You can live with the secret as you always have! It's better that way! Let the past sleep.
Except the past had never really slept, not for him. For the first time in two thousand nine hundred and thirty years, he pushed the thought away. He took Galadriel's outstretched hand and looked up at her, the terror naked on his face.
"Do not fear, my brother elf," she said, giving him a small smile of such heartbreaking warmth and love that he nearly wept, "I will not let you fall. Look. The healing begins."
Elrond looked into the placid surface of the clear water, into Galadriel's mirror. And remembered everything.
30
Nearly three thousand years before he would find himself at the mercy of Galadriel's mirror, Elrond, lord of Rivendell, presided over the lavish banquet table prepared in honor of the vernal equinox. To the right and to the left of him sat the high society elves of Rivendell, the brightness of their silk finery nearly blinding him. The tiara of a beautiful elven debutante blinked in the bright torchlight, and he winced. Beside him, his promised, Celebrian, turned to look at him, creamy brow furrowed in concern.
"Are you alright?" she asked, resting a delicate hand on his forearm.
"Never better, my dear," he laughed, taking her hand. He was, in fact, feeling wonderful, healthy and alive with his beloved at his side. He turned to look at her, struck as always, by her flawless beauty. Hair so black it looked like spun oil cascaded down glowing white shoulders. Dark chocolate eyes looked back at him, and a pink candy mouth twitched in silent amusement. Staring at her, he was suddenly filled with a rush of helpless love, and before he could stop himself, he pressed his lips to hers in a fierce kiss.
"My lord," she breathed when they had parted, "what has come over you? I think the wine has gone to your head." She pressed her fingers to her still-tingling lips in surprise.
"Nonsense, my dove! I am just so happy to be near you now." He laughed again and offered a more chaste kiss to her cheek.
But it wasn't nonsense. On the night his life would begin to spiral out of control, the night his guilt was bought and paid for, the wine had indeed gone to his head. As he sat upon the long dais with his love, he was already passing from the realm of sobriety into the surreal territory of initial tipsiness. It was twenty minutes past ten in the evening, and he was already two goblets beyond his normal limit. He excused this rare lapse in judgment with the fact that it was a rare and important occasion. The colors were brighter to him, the noises louder and sharper. Looking back, he would tell himself that he should have known better, should have recognized his drunkenness and pushed the later offerings of wine and ale away. If only he had seen.
For now, though, he was blissfully unaware of what awaited him. He sat with Celebrian's warm hand entwined in his own and looked out at the lively merriment before him. The great hall was thronged with hundreds of elves, their faces hectic with revelry. Though they could not be seen, hundreds more milled about the lush, open courtyard, their distant voices drifting inside only to be drowned out by the lively strains of the octet playing discreetly in the corner. At the back of the hall, a troupe of lithe, gazelle-legged dancers spun and pirouetted across the floor, their sheer gowns trailing behind them like wisps of smoke.
A woman in a salmon evening gown flitted past Elrond, and he made a moue of disgust, thinking that she looked like an undercooked ham. Celebrian saw the look and shot him a worried glance.
"Are you well? Does your head trouble you, my lord?" she asked, thinking that his overindulgence had caught up to him at last. In truth, she was a bit worried. She had never seen him drink so much so freely. Most of the time, he was far more prudent, contenting himself with no more than three glasses of ale or wine, but tonight she had already seen half a dozen goblets pass by his lips, and the merrymaking was hardly underway. She supposed it couldn't hurt; tonight was a special festival and there were plenty of servants to care for him should he need it. Tomorrow he would pay for his hedonism with a splitting head and return to his usual abstemious routine. She decided not to ruin the mood.
"I am perfectly fine, beloved. I was only thinking what a terrible shame it is that not all women can possess your grace and beauty," he answered jovially, his words quick but not yet slurred.
Celebrian giggled girlishly and brushed a stray lock from her forehead. Such a flatterer was Elrond, always showering her with little comments, telling her she was beautiful and priceless and grand. He made her feel divine and pure, as if she were the only woman in the world. She loved him with a love so complete that it frightened her. Sometimes when she lay nestled in the crook of his arm as they watched the passing clouds in the cerulean sky above, her love for him filled her until she thought she would burst. The feeling engulfed her now as she saw him sitting happily upon the upraised dais wearing an expression of hazy happiness.
"Come, love, dance with me!" she cried seizing him by the hand and pulling him to his feet. She was afraid that if she didn't do something she would burst into inexplicable tears.
Elrond followed his fleet-footed dove onto the main floor, wobbling slightly as he came down the three steps leading from the dais. He was not certain he could dance; even he could not deny that he was drunk now, but he would try. He wanted her to be happy. She had suffered much while he had learned to become a leader and the Lord of Rivendell. Even after two years, he was still uncomfortable in the role this life demanded of him. He was gradually growing accustomed to the niggling nuances of his lofty position, and it was largely because of Celebrian's calming presence that he had made it through it all. So for her he would dance.
The octet struck up a mid-tempo waltz, a serendipitous happening for which he was profoundly grateful. If they had chosen a fast reel or looping group dance, he would not have been able to do it. Though from total inebriation, he could no longer be called tipsy. Colors had taken on a shimmery, mirage quality and were painfully bright. The music was still pleasant, but the surrounding din of eating and loud conversation made his head ache.
They danced beautifully in spite of Elrond's earlier unsteadiness. Celebrian led him, steadying him when his feet grew clumsy. She did this, Elrond thought, the same way she had led him through his earlier trials and tribulations, those times when he had been so unsure of himself. She radiated calm assurance, a soothing balm when his mind grew troubled. I owe you so much, dear Celebrian, he thought as they spun languidly across the polished marble floor. I shall never be able to repay you, though I have an eternity in which to do it.
He lost himself in the moment, entranced by the fine gold netting overlying her shining sable hair like a sprinkling of stardust on a velvet tapestry. She looked like a Valar to him then, one of the holy elves who created all the world, for surely it was from her that all things good and pure had come. Afterwards, when his life had unraveled into a living hell of deceit, guilt, and loss, it was to that one moment he would return when he sought a momentary refuge from the horror of his days, that one moment of supreme goodness when all seemed right and hope had still been possible for him.
The enthralled couple danced, and all around them, Elrond's faithful subjects parted and shifted like windblown sands. Most of the onlookers gazed upon the pair with quiet approval. Lord Elrond had toiled long trying to make Rivendell a place of sanctuary for them, and they wished him all the joy this newfound happiness could bring him. Most, but not all. Among the crowd of supporters, one pair of eyes tracked the happy lord and his lady the way a cobra tracks a fleeing fieldmouse. They were black and cold, glittering with unrepentant malice.
The eyes belonged to Lady Sithirantiel, who, until a little over two years before, been the king's consort. She watched her former suitor as he traipsed across the floor with his newest acquisition, the one to whom he had promised his heart, and her stomach twisted in rage. Before this Celebrian had come along, she and Elrond had spent much time together, and rumors had begun to filter through the realm that perhaps Elrond had found a mate and would soon be joined. These words had been like music to Sithirantiel's ears, for she was ambitious and had dreamed of such a powerful joining since she was a small Elfling.
All had gone well for almost a year. Elrond had idly broached the subject of a deeper commitment on several occasions as they wandered the winding flagstone pathways of Rivendell. Then Celebrian had come, and all of Sithirantiel's aspirations of power had crumbled. She still remembered the way her stomach had dropped when Elrond first laid eyes on Celebrian as she stood on the narrow stone bridge, a delicate yellow butterfly cupped in one hand. He had been talking, and his words had trailed away like a diminishing echo. He remained there, staring at the radiant nymph lounging on the bridge for a very long time. Finally, simmering with blind fury, she had called his name. His head had snapped around like a man awakening from a deep dream. Their conversation as they returned to Imladris had been vague and stilted, and she had known even then that it was over.
She was not surprised when he summoned her to his chambers a scant three weeks later, his face pinched but determined. She had understood the reason for the summons immediately; she was ambitious but not stupid. She had struggled with her fury while he waxed on about the winds of Fate and about how sometimes things did not go as one planned. She bit her lip while he had groped clumsily for the right words by which to dismiss her, and when he had at last broken the news to her, she had sat upon her hands for fear that they might reach out to wring the life from his fickle, traitorous neck.
She bore his abandonment in silence. There had been no tears, no angry, hectoring remonstration. She had only looked at him with her dead black eyes and bowed her head. Mistaking her silence for overwhelming grief, he had tried to placate her by appointing her as a courtier to his court so that she could still enjoy the comforts of Imladris. It was a gesture for which he would soon pay dearly. Her silence had not been born of grief, but cold, calculated hatred. Even as she left his chambers for the last time, she had been plotting her vengeance.
These poisonous memories rose up in her like a choking fog, blotting out reason and any semblance of decency that may have survived in the black recesses of her mind and heart. The crystal wine glass she clutched in one hand jittered and plinked ominously, threatening to implode between her fingers. She forced her fingers to relax. She couldn't afford to lose her composure now, not after all of her careful planning. She was so close.
Enjoy it while you can, you silly, interfering bitch, she thought, watching Celebrian's feet as they floated effortlessly across the floor. Because very soon your perfect little world is going to come crashing down around you. I'm going to destroy you both, the king and his whore. A vicious smile twisted her lips at the thought and she clamped down on the inside of her cheek to quell and explosive giggling fit that, had it erupted, would have garnered numerous puzzled stares. Just a little longer, she told herself, and went to rejoin the party.
Elrond saw none of the treachery unfolding around him. He was too wrapped up in his precious Celebrian and the general merriment of the evening. It occurred to him as he returned to his seat, flushed and exhilarated from dancing, that he hadn't felt such happiness since the death of his human father so many years before. That train of thought to resurrect recollections he did not wish to entertain, and he reached for another goblet of red wine. Celebrian opened her mouth to protest but shut it again.
"Don't worry, my sweet, this glass is my last," he promised, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze.
Mollified, she rested her head upon his strong shoulder, and he breathed in her light apple scent. He relaxed into his chair and looked out over the sea of happy faces. The alcohol had dulled his vision, rendering faces indistinct, no more than small white blurbs perched above splashes of blinding color. Even so, his unfocused eyes froze on one particular speck tucked unobtrusively in the near corner. Hair so blond it looked white-hot could only belong to one person-Sithirantiel. A bolt of unease shot through him, though he could not say precisely why. As an appointed courtier, she was perfectly within her rights to be in the great hall. He himself had given her the position. Yet there was something disturbing in the way she stood seen but unremarked in the corner, almost like she wanted him to see her, like she was trying to remind him of his callousness toward her.
He quickly looked away. A nasty affair that had been. He had been fond of Sithirantiel at first. She had seemed so gay and sweet. Soon enough, however, he had noticed a change in her demeanor, a creeping haughtiness and greed. When they met in the royal gardens to stroll and talk, she often looked down at his hands before looking into his eyes, as though she were searching for a gift. Before long, she had begun to talk incessantly of the grandiose castle she wanted to build once they were joined. It was then that he decided to end things with her. Celebrian had merely expedited the process.
Her reaction to the news of his dismissal had been odd. He had mentally prepared himself for a barrage of screaming and tearful epithets, but there had been nothing of the sort. There was just a thick silence and a jerky inclination of her head in response. Truthfully, he had taken it worse than she, giving her the courtier position in an effort to keep the peace. It was a move he was beginning to regret. More and more, he wished he could send her away, but he was a kind elf and could think of no way to do it gently, so he let her stay.
One last drink became two, then three. He was reaching for a fourth when his clumsy, wine-numbed fingers upset the goblet, spilling pungent red wine onto the immaculate white tunic of the attendant elf. It spread across the stoic elf's chest like a bloodstain, and Elrond blinked owlishly at it.
"Forgive me," he muttered. The words were thick and awkward in his mouth, and his tongue felt like a swatch of dry gauze.
"Do not trouble yourself, sire," replied the good-natured elf, and retreated into the kitchens.
Elrond, who had long ago passed the boundary of drunkenness into the sphere of near-delirium, pushed back his chair and tottered to his feet. The room spun crazily for a moment, and he staggered slightly to regain his balance.
"My friends," he said, speaking slowly and enunciating every word to the point of absurdity, "though I have greatly enjoyed our merrymaking, the time has come to bring this wonderful evening to a close. I bid thee farewell and wish to thank you for making this affair such a memorable occasion." With that he turned and made his way down the dais steps, taking baby steps so as not to fall.
For nearly four hours he stood in the receiving line, shaking hands and grunting incoherent farewells to the departing partygoers. They were nameless, faceless blurs to him. He did not notice Sithirantiel's absence from the eternal stream of tired guests, and even if he had, he was far beyond caring. His head was spinning, and his stomach felt loose and bruised. It gave an intermittent, feeble heave as if it was trying to climb up the glass walls of his esophagus, and he had to make a concentrated effort not to retch.
When the last reveler had straggled out into the night, he turned unsteadily to Celebrian, who had been waiting patiently there since the receiving line had begun, and found that she was looking at him in fearful concern.
"Would you like me to stay with you tonight, love?" she asked, reaching out her hands to catch him as he weaved dangerously to the right. He looked dreadful and should not be left alone tonight.
"No, no, my pretty bird," he cried, clapping a wild hand on her shoulder so hard that she nearly fell over. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" she said fretfully. "I really think I-,"
"Nonsense," he bellowed merrily, "besides, you know it's against the rules." He fixed her with a solemn stare before resuming the floating wobble that passed for standing still in his unfortunate state.
She considered arguing further but knew it was no use. Even hopelessly drunk, he was not a man to be easily swayed. If his mind was made up, and it appeared to be, there would be no changing it. She would just have to hope the servants helped him to bed. "I love you," she said softly, brushing his lips with her own. Her heart broke a little to see him this way, but she knew that things would be back to normal in the morning.
"I love you, too," he slurred, covering her cheek in a sloppy kiss.
She slowly withdrew her hand and slipped out the door, casting one last fearful glance back over his shoulder as she went.
He watched her leave, then turned to face the magnificent wooden staircase that wended its way from the sprawling main floor up to his posh private chambers. Sober, it would have posed no problem, a pleasant jaunt up forty winding steps that ended at his bedchamber door. He was not sober, not by any means; he was, in fact, so drunk that was nearly poisoned with it. The stairs were now a different beast entirely. It was going to be like climbing Cadharas with lead weights strapped to his feet.
He reeled and lurched his way up the first twenty stairs without incident, stopping now and then to wobble precariously on the edge of one riser before continuing on to the next. He had just placed his foot upon the twenty-first riser when his tattered equilibrium failed him. The world spun and listed around his muddled head, and he teetered wildly, one leg lifted behind him like a manic ballerina. He hung suspended there for a moment, a gangly comic tableau, before crashing facedown onto the stairs with a loud thud, his chin cracking painfully on the step a few paces in front of him.
He lay there in a heap on the stairs, his dim mind belatedly registering the copper taste of blood in his mouth. There was silence save for the sound of his own sluggish heartbeat in his ears. His tired, bewildered mind was trying desperately to send signals to his arms and legs to get things moving again, but at present, all the relays and switches seemed to be hopelessly jammed. As a consequence, his limbs only twitched and waved aimlessly around him. He seemed to be swimming the stairs.
A full five minutes passed before the backlog of synaptic impulses cleared enough checkpoints in his mind to get him started again. He rose shakily to his hands and knees and began to scrabble up the remaining stairs, the two sides of his body badly out of sync, making him look like an arthritic crab. By the time he made it over the final riser, he was exhausted. He slumped against the sturdy door to his bedchambers, his breathing coming in great, snuffling wheezes. Nearly thirty minutes had gone by since Celebrian had kissed him goodnight and take her leave.
When he was sure he could, he used the brass door handle above him as a means to pull himself upright again. The sudden change in perspective made him dizzy, and he leaned heavily on the door, fighting with his offended gorge. He fumbled with the door handle, praying he could make it to the ceramic washbasin beside his bed before the contents of his stomach erupted onto the floor. He succeeded in opening the door on the third try and was about to make a mad dash for the basin when something stopped him.
A lance of fear broke through his stupor like a splash of cold water. The wave of nausea passed, and he stood frozen in the door, one foot raised slightly off the floor. Something was different in this room that should have been completely familiar to him. He was sure it wasn't a physical change(as sure as he could be about anything in his condition), but there was something wrong all the same. The air felt heavier somehow, as though unseen eyes were watching him from the cover of darkness. He took a tentative, trembling step forward.
Who is there? he thought, and a moment later the thought tumbled from dry lips.
"Who's there?" he called to the quiet, beckoning room, only it came out, "Whooozere?" He listened. Nothing. Just the sound of the wind tickling the new leaves on the young tree sprouts in his garden. He sighed. Just your imagination, old boy. Sleep it off.
Good advice. He yawned and lumbered over the bed. Gods, was he going to pay for this in the morning. He pulled pack the light cotton coverlet, and his fingers brushed against something warm and solid. He recoiled in shock. It had felt like the something had been breathing, but that couldn't be. No one else ever slept in this bed.
He screamed when the something spoke low from out of the shadows.
"Hello, my lord," the voice said. The words carried a note of invitation.
"Who are you?" he asked, feeling slow and stupid.
"Why, Celebrian, of course," came the reply. "Who else would it be?"
That seemed logical, but at the same time it did not. A fact niggled at his mind, something he should have remembered, but the alcohol had done its damage, and it refused to coalesce. He furrowed his brow in concentration, and it almost came to him, but then the voice came once more, and it slipped away again.
"Come, my love, I have something to give you." The eagerness in the voice simultaneously aroused and frightened him. It was Celebrian's voice. Almost. It sounded like her, but underneath the warmth and desire, there lurked a coldness, a dark tinge of malice. He almost had it then, the fact that kept slipping away, but the alcohol would not release its grip, and it danced just beyond the veil of his understanding.
The voice spoke to him of things he had long desired, and warm hands reached up from the darkness where the devil holds sway, touching, caressing, full of forbidden promise. The voice called to him, beseeched him, bewitched him, and in the end, he went to it. Gods help him, he went.
"It is time," she said simply. Her voice was soft, the sound of wind rustling through dry reeds.
"I know, but I am afraid. And ashamed."
"Only the very foolish would hold no fear," she said, looking steadily down at him.
That made him feel a little better, but he was still terrified of what he must do. Even now, as he stood on the threshold of exorcising his personal demons after countless centuries, his frightened, cowering mind shied away from the enormity of the task before him. He knew very well what he would see in her mirror tonight; the secret he had tried to bury for so long was going to come to light at last, rising from its restless grave like a hideous and tragic specter. He couldn't do it. Though the prospect of freeing his tired soul from the burden of the awful guilt of his distant past was appealing to him, the fear and self-loathing he felt was too strong.
"I can't…I shouldn't-," he began, turning to leave, but Galadriel laid an insistent, restraining hand on his shoulder.
"For all these long years, you have fled from your past, tried to hide from the truth in your fortress of Imladris, and still the truth has pursued you all the same. If you do not face it now, you will never be free of the demons that haunt your dreams. The past will never go away, not for us." She moved toward the fountain, picking up the silver carafe. Her blue eyes never left him. "The secret you carry consumes you. It feeds on your fear and shame, leeching the strength from your bones. It will never let you rest. It will kill you if it can. Come, look into the mirror and be cleansed." She held out her hand in silent invitation
Elrond stared at her hand, white as marble and floating in the air like a glowing dove. There was nothing holding him here. He could run if he chose. He was tempted, oh so tempted to do just that, but she was right. If he walked away now, the truth would still be there, like a malignant tumor skulking beneath healthy white skin, working its evil magic in silence, undiscovered and unacknowledged until it was too late. He sighed and stepped forward on treacherous knees that threatened to buckle at every step.
No! What are you doing? Stop! gibbered the fearful voice in his mind. It was the voice that had held him captive for all these years. There is no need for this. You can live with the secret as you always have! It's better that way! Let the past sleep.
Except the past had never really slept, not for him. For the first time in two thousand nine hundred and thirty years, he pushed the thought away. He took Galadriel's outstretched hand and looked up at her, the terror naked on his face.
"Do not fear, my brother elf," she said, giving him a small smile of such heartbreaking warmth and love that he nearly wept, "I will not let you fall. Look. The healing begins."
Elrond looked into the placid surface of the clear water, into Galadriel's mirror. And remembered everything.
30
Nearly three thousand years before he would find himself at the mercy of Galadriel's mirror, Elrond, lord of Rivendell, presided over the lavish banquet table prepared in honor of the vernal equinox. To the right and to the left of him sat the high society elves of Rivendell, the brightness of their silk finery nearly blinding him. The tiara of a beautiful elven debutante blinked in the bright torchlight, and he winced. Beside him, his promised, Celebrian, turned to look at him, creamy brow furrowed in concern.
"Are you alright?" she asked, resting a delicate hand on his forearm.
"Never better, my dear," he laughed, taking her hand. He was, in fact, feeling wonderful, healthy and alive with his beloved at his side. He turned to look at her, struck as always, by her flawless beauty. Hair so black it looked like spun oil cascaded down glowing white shoulders. Dark chocolate eyes looked back at him, and a pink candy mouth twitched in silent amusement. Staring at her, he was suddenly filled with a rush of helpless love, and before he could stop himself, he pressed his lips to hers in a fierce kiss.
"My lord," she breathed when they had parted, "what has come over you? I think the wine has gone to your head." She pressed her fingers to her still-tingling lips in surprise.
"Nonsense, my dove! I am just so happy to be near you now." He laughed again and offered a more chaste kiss to her cheek.
But it wasn't nonsense. On the night his life would begin to spiral out of control, the night his guilt was bought and paid for, the wine had indeed gone to his head. As he sat upon the long dais with his love, he was already passing from the realm of sobriety into the surreal territory of initial tipsiness. It was twenty minutes past ten in the evening, and he was already two goblets beyond his normal limit. He excused this rare lapse in judgment with the fact that it was a rare and important occasion. The colors were brighter to him, the noises louder and sharper. Looking back, he would tell himself that he should have known better, should have recognized his drunkenness and pushed the later offerings of wine and ale away. If only he had seen.
For now, though, he was blissfully unaware of what awaited him. He sat with Celebrian's warm hand entwined in his own and looked out at the lively merriment before him. The great hall was thronged with hundreds of elves, their faces hectic with revelry. Though they could not be seen, hundreds more milled about the lush, open courtyard, their distant voices drifting inside only to be drowned out by the lively strains of the octet playing discreetly in the corner. At the back of the hall, a troupe of lithe, gazelle-legged dancers spun and pirouetted across the floor, their sheer gowns trailing behind them like wisps of smoke.
A woman in a salmon evening gown flitted past Elrond, and he made a moue of disgust, thinking that she looked like an undercooked ham. Celebrian saw the look and shot him a worried glance.
"Are you well? Does your head trouble you, my lord?" she asked, thinking that his overindulgence had caught up to him at last. In truth, she was a bit worried. She had never seen him drink so much so freely. Most of the time, he was far more prudent, contenting himself with no more than three glasses of ale or wine, but tonight she had already seen half a dozen goblets pass by his lips, and the merrymaking was hardly underway. She supposed it couldn't hurt; tonight was a special festival and there were plenty of servants to care for him should he need it. Tomorrow he would pay for his hedonism with a splitting head and return to his usual abstemious routine. She decided not to ruin the mood.
"I am perfectly fine, beloved. I was only thinking what a terrible shame it is that not all women can possess your grace and beauty," he answered jovially, his words quick but not yet slurred.
Celebrian giggled girlishly and brushed a stray lock from her forehead. Such a flatterer was Elrond, always showering her with little comments, telling her she was beautiful and priceless and grand. He made her feel divine and pure, as if she were the only woman in the world. She loved him with a love so complete that it frightened her. Sometimes when she lay nestled in the crook of his arm as they watched the passing clouds in the cerulean sky above, her love for him filled her until she thought she would burst. The feeling engulfed her now as she saw him sitting happily upon the upraised dais wearing an expression of hazy happiness.
"Come, love, dance with me!" she cried seizing him by the hand and pulling him to his feet. She was afraid that if she didn't do something she would burst into inexplicable tears.
Elrond followed his fleet-footed dove onto the main floor, wobbling slightly as he came down the three steps leading from the dais. He was not certain he could dance; even he could not deny that he was drunk now, but he would try. He wanted her to be happy. She had suffered much while he had learned to become a leader and the Lord of Rivendell. Even after two years, he was still uncomfortable in the role this life demanded of him. He was gradually growing accustomed to the niggling nuances of his lofty position, and it was largely because of Celebrian's calming presence that he had made it through it all. So for her he would dance.
The octet struck up a mid-tempo waltz, a serendipitous happening for which he was profoundly grateful. If they had chosen a fast reel or looping group dance, he would not have been able to do it. Though from total inebriation, he could no longer be called tipsy. Colors had taken on a shimmery, mirage quality and were painfully bright. The music was still pleasant, but the surrounding din of eating and loud conversation made his head ache.
They danced beautifully in spite of Elrond's earlier unsteadiness. Celebrian led him, steadying him when his feet grew clumsy. She did this, Elrond thought, the same way she had led him through his earlier trials and tribulations, those times when he had been so unsure of himself. She radiated calm assurance, a soothing balm when his mind grew troubled. I owe you so much, dear Celebrian, he thought as they spun languidly across the polished marble floor. I shall never be able to repay you, though I have an eternity in which to do it.
He lost himself in the moment, entranced by the fine gold netting overlying her shining sable hair like a sprinkling of stardust on a velvet tapestry. She looked like a Valar to him then, one of the holy elves who created all the world, for surely it was from her that all things good and pure had come. Afterwards, when his life had unraveled into a living hell of deceit, guilt, and loss, it was to that one moment he would return when he sought a momentary refuge from the horror of his days, that one moment of supreme goodness when all seemed right and hope had still been possible for him.
The enthralled couple danced, and all around them, Elrond's faithful subjects parted and shifted like windblown sands. Most of the onlookers gazed upon the pair with quiet approval. Lord Elrond had toiled long trying to make Rivendell a place of sanctuary for them, and they wished him all the joy this newfound happiness could bring him. Most, but not all. Among the crowd of supporters, one pair of eyes tracked the happy lord and his lady the way a cobra tracks a fleeing fieldmouse. They were black and cold, glittering with unrepentant malice.
The eyes belonged to Lady Sithirantiel, who, until a little over two years before, been the king's consort. She watched her former suitor as he traipsed across the floor with his newest acquisition, the one to whom he had promised his heart, and her stomach twisted in rage. Before this Celebrian had come along, she and Elrond had spent much time together, and rumors had begun to filter through the realm that perhaps Elrond had found a mate and would soon be joined. These words had been like music to Sithirantiel's ears, for she was ambitious and had dreamed of such a powerful joining since she was a small Elfling.
All had gone well for almost a year. Elrond had idly broached the subject of a deeper commitment on several occasions as they wandered the winding flagstone pathways of Rivendell. Then Celebrian had come, and all of Sithirantiel's aspirations of power had crumbled. She still remembered the way her stomach had dropped when Elrond first laid eyes on Celebrian as she stood on the narrow stone bridge, a delicate yellow butterfly cupped in one hand. He had been talking, and his words had trailed away like a diminishing echo. He remained there, staring at the radiant nymph lounging on the bridge for a very long time. Finally, simmering with blind fury, she had called his name. His head had snapped around like a man awakening from a deep dream. Their conversation as they returned to Imladris had been vague and stilted, and she had known even then that it was over.
She was not surprised when he summoned her to his chambers a scant three weeks later, his face pinched but determined. She had understood the reason for the summons immediately; she was ambitious but not stupid. She had struggled with her fury while he waxed on about the winds of Fate and about how sometimes things did not go as one planned. She bit her lip while he had groped clumsily for the right words by which to dismiss her, and when he had at last broken the news to her, she had sat upon her hands for fear that they might reach out to wring the life from his fickle, traitorous neck.
She bore his abandonment in silence. There had been no tears, no angry, hectoring remonstration. She had only looked at him with her dead black eyes and bowed her head. Mistaking her silence for overwhelming grief, he had tried to placate her by appointing her as a courtier to his court so that she could still enjoy the comforts of Imladris. It was a gesture for which he would soon pay dearly. Her silence had not been born of grief, but cold, calculated hatred. Even as she left his chambers for the last time, she had been plotting her vengeance.
These poisonous memories rose up in her like a choking fog, blotting out reason and any semblance of decency that may have survived in the black recesses of her mind and heart. The crystal wine glass she clutched in one hand jittered and plinked ominously, threatening to implode between her fingers. She forced her fingers to relax. She couldn't afford to lose her composure now, not after all of her careful planning. She was so close.
Enjoy it while you can, you silly, interfering bitch, she thought, watching Celebrian's feet as they floated effortlessly across the floor. Because very soon your perfect little world is going to come crashing down around you. I'm going to destroy you both, the king and his whore. A vicious smile twisted her lips at the thought and she clamped down on the inside of her cheek to quell and explosive giggling fit that, had it erupted, would have garnered numerous puzzled stares. Just a little longer, she told herself, and went to rejoin the party.
Elrond saw none of the treachery unfolding around him. He was too wrapped up in his precious Celebrian and the general merriment of the evening. It occurred to him as he returned to his seat, flushed and exhilarated from dancing, that he hadn't felt such happiness since the death of his human father so many years before. That train of thought to resurrect recollections he did not wish to entertain, and he reached for another goblet of red wine. Celebrian opened her mouth to protest but shut it again.
"Don't worry, my sweet, this glass is my last," he promised, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze.
Mollified, she rested her head upon his strong shoulder, and he breathed in her light apple scent. He relaxed into his chair and looked out over the sea of happy faces. The alcohol had dulled his vision, rendering faces indistinct, no more than small white blurbs perched above splashes of blinding color. Even so, his unfocused eyes froze on one particular speck tucked unobtrusively in the near corner. Hair so blond it looked white-hot could only belong to one person-Sithirantiel. A bolt of unease shot through him, though he could not say precisely why. As an appointed courtier, she was perfectly within her rights to be in the great hall. He himself had given her the position. Yet there was something disturbing in the way she stood seen but unremarked in the corner, almost like she wanted him to see her, like she was trying to remind him of his callousness toward her.
He quickly looked away. A nasty affair that had been. He had been fond of Sithirantiel at first. She had seemed so gay and sweet. Soon enough, however, he had noticed a change in her demeanor, a creeping haughtiness and greed. When they met in the royal gardens to stroll and talk, she often looked down at his hands before looking into his eyes, as though she were searching for a gift. Before long, she had begun to talk incessantly of the grandiose castle she wanted to build once they were joined. It was then that he decided to end things with her. Celebrian had merely expedited the process.
Her reaction to the news of his dismissal had been odd. He had mentally prepared himself for a barrage of screaming and tearful epithets, but there had been nothing of the sort. There was just a thick silence and a jerky inclination of her head in response. Truthfully, he had taken it worse than she, giving her the courtier position in an effort to keep the peace. It was a move he was beginning to regret. More and more, he wished he could send her away, but he was a kind elf and could think of no way to do it gently, so he let her stay.
One last drink became two, then three. He was reaching for a fourth when his clumsy, wine-numbed fingers upset the goblet, spilling pungent red wine onto the immaculate white tunic of the attendant elf. It spread across the stoic elf's chest like a bloodstain, and Elrond blinked owlishly at it.
"Forgive me," he muttered. The words were thick and awkward in his mouth, and his tongue felt like a swatch of dry gauze.
"Do not trouble yourself, sire," replied the good-natured elf, and retreated into the kitchens.
Elrond, who had long ago passed the boundary of drunkenness into the sphere of near-delirium, pushed back his chair and tottered to his feet. The room spun crazily for a moment, and he staggered slightly to regain his balance.
"My friends," he said, speaking slowly and enunciating every word to the point of absurdity, "though I have greatly enjoyed our merrymaking, the time has come to bring this wonderful evening to a close. I bid thee farewell and wish to thank you for making this affair such a memorable occasion." With that he turned and made his way down the dais steps, taking baby steps so as not to fall.
For nearly four hours he stood in the receiving line, shaking hands and grunting incoherent farewells to the departing partygoers. They were nameless, faceless blurs to him. He did not notice Sithirantiel's absence from the eternal stream of tired guests, and even if he had, he was far beyond caring. His head was spinning, and his stomach felt loose and bruised. It gave an intermittent, feeble heave as if it was trying to climb up the glass walls of his esophagus, and he had to make a concentrated effort not to retch.
When the last reveler had straggled out into the night, he turned unsteadily to Celebrian, who had been waiting patiently there since the receiving line had begun, and found that she was looking at him in fearful concern.
"Would you like me to stay with you tonight, love?" she asked, reaching out her hands to catch him as he weaved dangerously to the right. He looked dreadful and should not be left alone tonight.
"No, no, my pretty bird," he cried, clapping a wild hand on her shoulder so hard that she nearly fell over. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" she said fretfully. "I really think I-,"
"Nonsense," he bellowed merrily, "besides, you know it's against the rules." He fixed her with a solemn stare before resuming the floating wobble that passed for standing still in his unfortunate state.
She considered arguing further but knew it was no use. Even hopelessly drunk, he was not a man to be easily swayed. If his mind was made up, and it appeared to be, there would be no changing it. She would just have to hope the servants helped him to bed. "I love you," she said softly, brushing his lips with her own. Her heart broke a little to see him this way, but she knew that things would be back to normal in the morning.
"I love you, too," he slurred, covering her cheek in a sloppy kiss.
She slowly withdrew her hand and slipped out the door, casting one last fearful glance back over his shoulder as she went.
He watched her leave, then turned to face the magnificent wooden staircase that wended its way from the sprawling main floor up to his posh private chambers. Sober, it would have posed no problem, a pleasant jaunt up forty winding steps that ended at his bedchamber door. He was not sober, not by any means; he was, in fact, so drunk that was nearly poisoned with it. The stairs were now a different beast entirely. It was going to be like climbing Cadharas with lead weights strapped to his feet.
He reeled and lurched his way up the first twenty stairs without incident, stopping now and then to wobble precariously on the edge of one riser before continuing on to the next. He had just placed his foot upon the twenty-first riser when his tattered equilibrium failed him. The world spun and listed around his muddled head, and he teetered wildly, one leg lifted behind him like a manic ballerina. He hung suspended there for a moment, a gangly comic tableau, before crashing facedown onto the stairs with a loud thud, his chin cracking painfully on the step a few paces in front of him.
He lay there in a heap on the stairs, his dim mind belatedly registering the copper taste of blood in his mouth. There was silence save for the sound of his own sluggish heartbeat in his ears. His tired, bewildered mind was trying desperately to send signals to his arms and legs to get things moving again, but at present, all the relays and switches seemed to be hopelessly jammed. As a consequence, his limbs only twitched and waved aimlessly around him. He seemed to be swimming the stairs.
A full five minutes passed before the backlog of synaptic impulses cleared enough checkpoints in his mind to get him started again. He rose shakily to his hands and knees and began to scrabble up the remaining stairs, the two sides of his body badly out of sync, making him look like an arthritic crab. By the time he made it over the final riser, he was exhausted. He slumped against the sturdy door to his bedchambers, his breathing coming in great, snuffling wheezes. Nearly thirty minutes had gone by since Celebrian had kissed him goodnight and take her leave.
When he was sure he could, he used the brass door handle above him as a means to pull himself upright again. The sudden change in perspective made him dizzy, and he leaned heavily on the door, fighting with his offended gorge. He fumbled with the door handle, praying he could make it to the ceramic washbasin beside his bed before the contents of his stomach erupted onto the floor. He succeeded in opening the door on the third try and was about to make a mad dash for the basin when something stopped him.
A lance of fear broke through his stupor like a splash of cold water. The wave of nausea passed, and he stood frozen in the door, one foot raised slightly off the floor. Something was different in this room that should have been completely familiar to him. He was sure it wasn't a physical change(as sure as he could be about anything in his condition), but there was something wrong all the same. The air felt heavier somehow, as though unseen eyes were watching him from the cover of darkness. He took a tentative, trembling step forward.
Who is there? he thought, and a moment later the thought tumbled from dry lips.
"Who's there?" he called to the quiet, beckoning room, only it came out, "Whooozere?" He listened. Nothing. Just the sound of the wind tickling the new leaves on the young tree sprouts in his garden. He sighed. Just your imagination, old boy. Sleep it off.
Good advice. He yawned and lumbered over the bed. Gods, was he going to pay for this in the morning. He pulled pack the light cotton coverlet, and his fingers brushed against something warm and solid. He recoiled in shock. It had felt like the something had been breathing, but that couldn't be. No one else ever slept in this bed.
He screamed when the something spoke low from out of the shadows.
"Hello, my lord," the voice said. The words carried a note of invitation.
"Who are you?" he asked, feeling slow and stupid.
"Why, Celebrian, of course," came the reply. "Who else would it be?"
That seemed logical, but at the same time it did not. A fact niggled at his mind, something he should have remembered, but the alcohol had done its damage, and it refused to coalesce. He furrowed his brow in concentration, and it almost came to him, but then the voice came once more, and it slipped away again.
"Come, my love, I have something to give you." The eagerness in the voice simultaneously aroused and frightened him. It was Celebrian's voice. Almost. It sounded like her, but underneath the warmth and desire, there lurked a coldness, a dark tinge of malice. He almost had it then, the fact that kept slipping away, but the alcohol would not release its grip, and it danced just beyond the veil of his understanding.
The voice spoke to him of things he had long desired, and warm hands reached up from the darkness where the devil holds sway, touching, caressing, full of forbidden promise. The voice called to him, beseeched him, bewitched him, and in the end, he went to it. Gods help him, he went.